


Sirens to the Wounded

by voodoochild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/John/Lestrade, hurt/comfort in the aftermath of a case. Because Lestrade needs hugs and blowjobs, dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sirens to the Wounded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melliyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melliyna/gifts).



> Written for Porn Battle XII, for the prompt "Sherlock/John/Lestrade, fire". Also written for **melliyna** , who wanted Lestrade!whump, and Sherlock and John caring. Title from Vienna Teng's "Radio".

If Greg hadn't been on the response team for the 7/7 bombing at Edgeware, this might have certified as one of the worst scenes of his life. It was certainly up there, though - Ray Finster, a serial killer targeting teenage girls, torched a fucking building because the SFO had called his bluff. Greg hadn't been lead on the case, but Sherlock had put the pieces together (almost offhandedly, over beans on toast two mornings ago) and the brass had called them in to help.

They'd had Finster, tracked him and his latest victim to a building on Upper Montague. Special Forces Armed Response had taken over, sent Sherlock home and told Greg and the team to back off. He's tried everything he can think of, but he still can't understand how it had gone south so quickly. He's worked with Montrose, the SFO in charge of negotiation, before - man's an arrogant prick and a shit darts player, but he's a damned good officer - and Montrose's team had been coordinating with Greg's, getting background information on Finster and his MO, what he'd be likely to do.

And then it had all gone to hell.

Finster torched the place, Montrose's men in the process of breaching the building, and a gas main was ignited, Greg and Sally and Lancaster from Aldgate branch were also caught in the blast, thrown nearly across the damned street. The whole fucking block had gone up, ambulance and fire sirens piercing the night, and SFO was golden, they wore fire-resistent uniforms, but the rest of the Met forces weren't so lucky.

Lancaster was out cold, hit by falling brick, and Sally and Greg had dragged him behind a fallen bus shelter, affording them all the protection they could find. Sally had luckily worn trousers that day, though neither of them had much in the way of protective clothing on. They'd spent an hour huddled there in the circle of some very dangerous surrounding fire, and another one being treated for smoke inhalation and first-and-second-degree burns.

Then had come the interrogations from the higher-ups. What had Greg been doing with a gun?

(It was a Glock 26, belonged to one of Montrose's team before the poor bastard got taken out by the blast. Greg had picked it up because they didn't know if Finster was going to come out shooting or not. He preferred not to have to be on the losing end of that confrontation.)

He is aware, is he not, that he isn't authorized to carry a weapon, on or off duty?

(He's sodding aware. As is Superintendent Erikson, who is at the range every Tuesday evening when Greg goes. Stupid bastard knows perfectly well that Greg could be SFO if he wanted. Knows exactly how well Greg can shoot, and that of anyone who could have picked up a gun today, he's one of the better choices.)

It's exhausting. All he wants to do is curl up in a warm bed and stop hearing sirens in his ears. They finally let him go, and Sally is waiting because she has nowhere else to be. He'd insisted on driving Sally to her sister's - Sally and Theresa fought like hellcats, but there was no one better to take care of her - before circling Baker Street aimlessly for the ten minutes it took Sherlock to text him.

 _Come up. Need pertinent case information. - SH_

He hesitates, because that's what he does when it comes to this strange, tenuous thing between the three of them. There is Sherlock-and-John, a connection so strong it cannot be missed. They are perfect opposites, the perfect balance for each other. He always feels as if he's going to throw the entire scale off.

But he wants them, and God help him, he needs them.

 _All right. - GL_

*****

A block over to find parking for his unmarked, fifteen meters to cross the street, two flights of stairs, and he is at the door to 221 B. He almost laughs - should he knock? He doesn't normally knock. Doesn't need to, bursting in to ask Sherlock on a case, do a search they all know is only a stopgap measure to pretend they're keeping Sherlock in line, or find one of the flat-mates if the other is unreachable.

The decision is taken out of his hands by the door opening, John behind it, concern radiating from him like a heater.

"Greg? Sherlock, come here and help me. I don't like the way he's looking." John is speaking, but Greg just can't focus. "Greg, it's all right. Fuck, mate, what happened?"

(Fuck, he's really out of it, isn't he? The medics had said he was physically fine, apart from bruises, scrapes, and a nasty-but-healing burn on his arm from a falling piece of metal. Should he have asked for a blanket? He could take pictures for Sherlock.)

Sherlock is at his other arm, peering at the hole through his coat sleeve. "Finster. He set the building on fire, didn't he?"

"Torched the whole fucking place," Greg says, his voice sounding smaller than he's heard it in a long time. Sherlock and John sit him on the couch, between them, while John slowly peels off his coat to look at his arm. "He warned us. Said we had to let him have Belinda or he'd drop his lighter into the gas main. SFO tried, but Montrose couldn't take the shot. Half the block went up. Surprised it didn't spread."

John turns him in Sherlock's arms, and Greg looks down to find long, pale fingers laced through his and it's calming. Most would think Sherlock cold or distant, but once you breach his walls, once you prove yourself worthy, he's as affectionate in his own way as anyone. He braces Greg against his chest, keeps him steady and upright as John eases layers of clothing off. Sherlock's breathing is deep and soothing against his back, and it helps distract him from John's probing of his burn.

"Tell me you at least saw a medic," John says, eyes narrowed and tone clipped. "It's not bad, but there's a high chance of infection with a burn like this."

Greg hisses through his teeth as John grazes the edge of the wound with his bare hand. "It's fucking wrapped. Didn't do it myself."

John rolls his eyes. "That means nothing. Anyone can wrap burns in a crisis - explosion like that, the paramedics will conscript anyone they can find. Doesn't mean they know what they're doing."

"He saw a medic, John, don't fuss," Sherlock says. Continues, at their mirrored blank looks. "The wound has been cleaned - no pus, no broken blisters, minimal degree of swelling - and treated with a common disinfecting ointment. The bandage is sterile, hospital-grade, taped on all four corners with medical tape. He's taken paracetemol but not enough, only the maximum that medics are allowed to dispense."

Greg wishes he could say Sherlock's brain gets less extraordinary over time, but it doesn't. It's just as astonishingly brilliant as the first time - twenty-two year old Sherlock, skintight black jeans and a charcoal grey shirt, high as a kite on enough cocaine to stop anyone else's heart, solving a cold case older than him using toenails and a fake Scottish accent.

"Yes, of course he's right" Greg groans, head tilted back onto Sherlock's shoulder. The paracetemol is wearing off. "Got anything stronger, Doc?"

John smiles ruefully and gets up to dig a bottle out of the desk drawer. From Sherlock's surprised inhale behind him, Greg figures Sherlock wasn't aware of its existence. Good, less temptation. You don't ever lose the itch of an addiction - for Sherlock, every pill or needle is as much a temptation as a cold pint or the clink of a glass is for Greg.

"Hydrocodone, then. Will you need water or can you take them dry?"

"Water, please."

John goes for the kitchen, and as he rattles around in there, Sherlock is busy examining the uncovered burn. Greg lets him - being scrutinized down to your pores is something you learn to live with when you spend time around Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock's thumb brushes over the bared skin of his chest, shirt unbuttoned and hanging halfway off him. Notes the red lines cut into his skin from the straps of his vest. "You wore your stab vest. Did you think Finster would try something?"

"He kidnapped a 19-year-old girl and holed himself up with a gun. I didn't want to take my chances with him suddenly becoming reasonable."

"I'm glad you did," Sherlock says, low and against his temple. "It protected you from the worst of the shrapnel. Still wish you'd take the SFO exam. There's very few I'd trust with a weapon more than you."

One of the few comes out of the kitchen with a glass of water before Greg can respond, and hands him the water and two pills. He takes them, and is about to move his leg so John can sit down, but instead, John leans over and kisses him.

*****

John tastes of takeaway and Sherlock - god, what they must have been doing the past couple hours, their clothes are a wreck - and as Greg goes to pull him closer, Sherlock's hands are on his arms.

"Easy," he says, body shifting with Greg's, mouth close to Greg's ear now. "Let us do the work."

John breaks the kiss to help Greg lever himself upward. "Don't make me confine you to bed for a few days, Inspector. That burn's going to be painful."

"Like to see you try," Greg mumbles, catching John's lip between his teeth and stumbling before Sherlock steadies him with hands on his waist. They start the slow walk toward Sherlock's bedroom, John pulling away to help guide Greg, Sherlock maneuvering him like a puppet. "Fuck all, I had plans for tonight."

"Oh?" John says, pushing open the door to the bedroom and guiding them inside.

Greg lets them steady him, Sherlock holding him still while John begins unbuttoning and unzipping and untying. The hydrocodone is beginning to kick in, turning the room hazy and dulling the pain in his arm to a manageable buzz. Everything feels slow, lush.

"Yeah. Was gonna tie Sherlock to his bed, see how long he lasted while we teased him. I wanted him to watch while you fucked yourself on my cock. Wanted you to ride me, John, you look good like that. Listen to Sherlock beg us for it, because he does it so pretty when he wants to."

Sherlock rubs against his arse, the first sexual contact he's shown toward Greg. Before, it had been about comfort, but Sherlock loves it when Greg talks. He's always been fascinated by the deepening of Greg's voice and the strengthening of his accent. He plucks at the hem of Greg's vest, tugging it up and off, burying his face in Greg's hair and moaning.

"As soon as you're healed," he says, dropping the shirt to the floor. "We'll do it, won't we, John?"

"God yes," John sighs, arms tightening around Greg to hold him up as he steps out of trousers and boxers. "Anything. Everything."

They lower him to the bed, and he stretches out gingerly as they turn their attention to each other. They undress with their normal routine - Sherlock in a flurry of thrown clothing and wild hair, John with methodical precision and flushed cheeks - and steal short, open-mouthed kisses from each other. They're fucking beautiful, Greg knows, has watched them lick and suck and rim and fuck each other every way they can think of, and he can't believe they're both his as well.

John wins the race, hand gripped tight in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back to expose a long, pale stretch of throat. Sherlock goes absolutely still, panting for breath, and locks eyes with Greg, who wants nothing more than to drop to his knees and suck Sherlock off while John keeps him still.

"How much does he want it?" John asks Greg, voice harsh in the quiet flat.

Greg drops his gaze to Sherlock's prick, hard and flushed and curving up against his belly, He feels the grin stretch across his face and palms his own cock, stroking in slow and firm motions. Lets the both of them look their fill before he answers.

"Pretty fucking bad, from the look of him. You should touch him."

"Should I?" John says, letting the back of his hand brush against Sherlock. "What if I want him to suck you off first?"

"John, please," Sherlock groans, arching against John's grip.

And it would take a more sadistic man than either John or Greg to deny Sherlock when he begs so nicely. John's palm slides down Sherlock's belly to cup his cock, matching Greg's pace. Sherlock cries out roughly, too quick for him to bite the sounds back as he would normally do. Greg loves it when he can't control himself, though, when he forgets about what he sounds like and what he looks like and abandons himself to what he feels.

Sherlock twists around in John's grip to kiss him, messy and desperate. He gets his hand around John's cock, causing the shorter man to growl low in his throat. Greg thinks it's a goddamn shame he's buzzed off painkillers and fresh off almost getting blown up - John so rarely lets himself be as rough as he likes, and Greg is one of the ones John trusts to either take it or rein him in. He wishes he could redirect John's attention to him, wrestle him to the bed and see who won.

Well, if he can't play one game, he can always play the other.

"He didn't finish earlier, did he?" Greg asks, and John's head snaps up. "You taste like him, but he was hard when I came in. Were you sucking him?"

"Yes," Sherlock groans. "Fucking tease. John, please, let me come."

"Not yet," John hums, walking him toward the bed.

Greg steadies Sherlock as he kneels on the bed next to him, stroking his hair out of his eyes and pulling him down to lie next to him. John shudders, watching them, and Greg gingerly rolls over to sling one leg over Sherlock's, pinning him.

"C'mon, John, finish him off. Let me see it."

Sherlock's grip is tight on the bedsheets - he'd tried to lock that death grip around Greg, leaving fingerprint-bruises on the skin of his wrists, his hips, but John had pried his hands off.

"Easy, Sherlock," John had said, pulling off Sherlock's cock to speak. "He's hurt enough. I'm sure he'll let you mark him all you want in a week or so."

Greg had grinned, smoothing Sherlock's hair back and pressing his mouth to the sweat-slicked skin of his collarbone. "Promise. Anywhere you like, however hard you like. But ease up tonight, huh? I still feel like I've been run over by ten lorries."

Sherlock's response had been strangled and incoherent, but Greg got the gist of it. He's not all that coherent himself when John's got his mouth wrapped around his cock, tongue pressing against the glans and sucking the head lightly. Greg doesn't want to know where John learned to suck cock like a fucking pro, but he's appreciative, even of just the view.

Greg sees that Sherlock is close, and he leans over, letting his fingers tangle in John's hair and force his head down. Sherlock cracks an eye at the change in suction, and moans full-throated for Greg's fingers, bruised knuckles and dirty nails from the fire, in the brown and blonde of John's hair. John groans himself as Greg's fingers tighten, and Sherlock echoes it with a curse a heartbeat later.

"Fuck, oh, fuck, John, Greg, please - please let me - oh, yes, yes, like that, perfect."

He comes hot and wet into John's mouth, chest heaving under Greg's palm. Greg watches as a bit of come spills out of the corner of John's mouth, and he pulls him up hard to lick it away. John grins against Greg's mouth and moves to lie opposite him, side to side, legs tangled with each other. Sherlock curls contentedly against Greg's back and rests a palm over Greg's heart.

"Shall we continue on our plan, Sherlock?" John asks, slow, lazy roll of his hips against Greg's. "Now that you've gotten what you wanted, you greedy sod."

"You made me wait nearly an hour," Sherlock rumbles. "You'd have been climbing the walls waiting to come. I'm much more focused now, and can now assist you in our plan without being distracted."

Greg lets his forehead touch John's, groaning in a combination of pleasure and exasperation. "Boys, perhaps now isn't the time?"

"No, you're going to like this plan," John says. "It involves you lying there and letting us touch you, kiss you, lick you wherever we want for however long we want. Sherlock plans on measuring the deterioration of your vocal faculties, or whatever the hell he was yammering on about."

Greg sighs bemusedly, sliding a hand between them to stroke John's cock. "And you? I suppose you've got some crazy plot to test my endurance or lung capacity?"

John laughs breathlessly, kissing Greg messy and rough, tongues sliding over each other. "Nah, just thought I'd finger you till you can't remember your own name. That good?"

Oh, it's good. It is very, very good and Greg is all in favor of this plan.

*****

Sherlock begins by retrieving the lube from the bedside table and warming some up between his fingers before he trails them down the crease of Greg's arse and circles his hole gently. Greg goes almost boneless, loving the deft, sweet slide of Sherlock's fingers in and out of him. It's a shame Sherlock doesn't actually enjoy fingering for its own sake - he'd much rather it be a precursor to penetrative sex of some kind - because his hands are bloody amazing. Deliberate and teasing and refusing to open him too far because that's John's job, even though Greg is ready to beg for it.

"All right, let's get you into position," Sherlock says, and he and John push and slide and support Greg until he's on his other side, facing Sherlock, John to his back. "Much better. John has access to that lovely arse of yours, and I may see and hear your voice clearly."

"Of course, wouldn't want your data to be corrupted by anything resembling fun," Greg says, rolling his eyes.

John stifles a laugh against Greg's shoulder, keeping mindful of his burned arm. He hooks Greg's left leg with his own, and spreads him open. Greg is reminded of John's strength, because he's no lightweight, and he's pretty hazy on endorphins and painkillers right now. He arches back against John's fingers, thicker and blunter than Sherlock's, but much more likely to give him what he wants.

"Mmm, talk to me," Sherlock purrs. "Tell me what he's doing to you. How good it feels."

"Christ, Sherlock, you know I'm pants at-"

John trails a finger over Greg's hole, then pushes in slow and steady. He loses the rest of whatever he was going to say in a choked moan, and Sherlock, the fucking bastard, laughs softly against his neck. John's gun-calloused finger rubs in and out, but it's not nearly enough and Greg shudders, gripping tight to Sherlock.

"You are not, I may reliably inform you, pants at anything," Sherlock says, eyes bluer than usual, fucked-out haze in them. "Agreed, John?"

"Agreed," John says reasonably, far too fucking reasonably for someone who's two-fingers-deep into Greg's arse.

And all Greg can do is give in, as he always does, because Sherlock's a bloody force of nature and John well on his way too. He pushes back against John's fingers, ruts against Sherlock's belly, and just lets himself talk.

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? How fucking good his hands feel? You know, you know the way he likes to rub slow and - ah, _fuck_ \- shallow, how he won't go deeper until you're half out of your head, begging him for it. You want me to tell you that he's almost past his second knuckle-"

"Proximal phalanges," both John and Sherlock respond, snickering when they realize they've spoken in unison.

Greg's busy trying not to whimper as John rotates his fingers slightly and grazes against his prostate, clamping down on his lip with his teeth. It doesn't do much good, because John just grins against Greg's neck and pushes harder. Sherlock watches, fascinated, as Greg's hand grips his hair and pulls him to touch foreheads.

"Laugh it up, you two. I can't keep this up much longer. It's too good, you know it is because you go sodding _mental_ when we do this to you, Sherlock. I can't - I just can't-"

"Don't worry," John says, cock hard and wet, rutting against the crease of Greg's arse. "Ignore him, just focus on what I'm doing to you. S'good, isn't it?"

His brain has, by now, taken a permanent powder, and he can feel the tight, coiling need in his cock. "Brilliant, it's fucking brilliant, ohhhhh-", he grits out and starts to come, hips snapping tight and hard against Sherlock.

He feels a spreading warmth at his back, and hears Sherlock kiss the moan out of John's mouth as John, too, climaxes. He feels Sherlock's hand on his cock, coaxing the last drops of come out as John slowly, conscientiously, slips his fingers out of Greg's arse.

"I suppose you two are going to want to succumb to the oxytocin in your bloodstreams?"

Greg huffs out a laugh as John curls closer, nuzzling his shoulder; Sherlock is so consistently put-out, because he never falls asleep after sex and they drop like flies. This isn't to say Sherlock's not used to tucking blankets over them and going down to the kitchen to mix chemicals and experiment on eyeballs. Besides, Greg couldn't stay awake if he wanted to, because said oxytocin and the hydrocodone he'd taken have combined to make him extremely sleepy.

"Mmmhmm," Greg mumbles, roughly meaning _"love you both, I'm done in"_.

John kisses Sherlock before he gets up. "If you're not back in this bed by three, I'll come down and sedate you." Which means _"I love you, we love you, get your arse in bed so we can cuddle."_

"No, you won't," Sherlock says, which is Sherlockian for _"Yes, dear."_

Who says three men - a doctor, a copper, and a detective - all in a relationship together can't learn to communicate?


End file.
